by Jessica Boston
Each year, I experience the holidays as a season of buzzing excitement, Hollywood-like nostalgia, and a bit of chaos thrown in for good measure. I navigate big feelings, endless plans, and at the end of a whirlwind few weeks, I find myself returning to the familiarity of habits and patterns that are both healthy and unhealthy; the unhealthy ones soldered to me like shields of protection.

Every January, I also find myself bombarded with an onslaught of advertisements telling me how I should change and what goals I should set for myself in the coming year. Whether it is diet plans or meal services, gym memberships, or apps to track my activities—each touting guaranteed results by the way—the message being that with a commitment, and spending a whole bunch of money, I can be a whole new person.

For me, being adopted means change can be tumultuous. It’s equivalent to instability, unpredictability, and “little me” gets lost. In birth, and subsequently in childhood, change meant a loss of self, a disregard of my identity, and a command of obedience and performance in what was characterized as “adventure” ahead. There was no room to process the grief and loss that accompanied it. I was expected to embrace change, celebrate it, and in many ways, be grateful for it.

By Kathleen Shea Kirstein
The telephone cord is so short that I feel trapped in a 3-foot space. I can’t pace, which is what I want to be doing—anything to dispel this adrenaline circulating through my body. I am on hold with the Passport Office to find out why my passport did not arrive in the same envelope as my husband's. We had applied for our passports several months before, after winning a trip to Cancun. My husband's was a renewal, and mine would be my first-ever passport. I was thrilled, but now I stand here on hold listening to the crappy elevator music..

Finally, a voice on the other end of the phone said, “Your birth certificate was filed fourteen months after your birth. You did not send documentation to explain the delay in filing your birth certificate. We require this documentation to proceed.” She discussed that a packet of information would arrive in two weeks.

I barely choked out the words, “Ok, thank you.”

I called my mother. Hoping she would have the answer to this question. We were very close and talked at least once a week.


“It must be a clerical error, I‘m sure it will be fine,” she said and hung up on me.

By Dr. Adam Anthony
Author’s Note: I wrote this piece from a place of healing and purpose — to honor the complexity of adoption, faith, and storytelling. Every adoptee’s story is sacred. Every family’s story is layered. And between them lies the work of truth-telling, grace, and growth.
May we keep creating spaces where both truth and love can coexist.

***

I asked my adoptive mom if I was mentioned in her book.
Her reply was short: “No names.”

Seeing how vague and unclear that was, I politely asked if I could read her book before it launched. In one of the chapters from her advanced copy, she’d written, “I would adopt before marriage.” Naturally, that led me to believe I might be featured in some way.

It didn’t sound harmless to me—it raised a small red flag.
Instead of being anxious or defensive, I did what felt most respectful: I asked for clarity.

Her response was “no.”

Then she went on to explain that this was her personal story—her journey of faith and purpose—and that what God placed in her to do would be told in her testimony. The simple question somehow became an accusation. She flipped it back on me, as though I was wrong for even asking.

What started as a sincere show of support for her as a new author quickly became a moment that revealed deeper cracks in our relationship. As an adoptive son, I’ve learned that our stories are deeply intertwined—but also, they are not the same.

My identity, my story, my truth still belong to me.